Type
by Gianne
Summary: Everyone has a type; a certain kind of person they tend to fall in love with. Or so they say. But maybe, there is room for change...


This has been lying around for some time now, unfinished, because I was not sure about the ending. I hope you like it :) And feel free to leave anything. Even if it's just a mistake pointed out - I'm learning, but never fast enough.

Tony straightened his back and circled his head. The sound made Tony groan. It was just four pm, and his back was already killing him. He looked around into the abandoned bullpen. Yes, it was a Saturday. Yes, Saturday was his day off. But that enormous stack of paperwork hadn't wanted to disappear so this morning, Tony had decided that it was time for some dramatic measures. Like working on a free (free!) Saturday. Tony couldn't remember anymore why exactly he had chosen this. It was even worse than working through the night.

He put his head on a thick file, trying to decide if it was worth it to spend the majority of his weekend – he had already seen that only the Saturday wouldn't suffice – behind his desk, like he did the rest of his days. But the elevator dinged before he could come to a conclusion, and Tony looked up – who else would come in on a day like this, a free day? He lifted his head, to see a pale girl step out the elevator. She wore black-rimmed glasses, oldfashioned jeans and a wide sweater. Her hair was gelled back so meticulously you could only see that she was a blond because of the tiny strands of gold that had somehow escaped the comb. She might have been pretty, but she covered it up damn well. Tony had never seen her before, not that that meant much as he tended to forget most people he wasn't interested in one way or another.

He was sure to remember this girl though, because she walked towards him and sat at Ziva's desk, without bothering to ask who it belonged to or even say hi. Tony wanted to say something about it, charm all the information he wanted out of her for example, but was cut off by her putting her glasses on the table – her eyes were probably her prettiest feature, Tony noted – and pulling off her sweater. Her figure wasn't bad either, Tony thought. He had never thought he would once be turned on by tucked in, plaid blouses. These were very nicely fitting though, and he couldn't help but roam her body – tight jeans, too – and barely managed to contain a whistle. She was still committing an offence, being at Ziva's desk without permission and all. And without the glasses, he got a better look at her nose – downright ugly – and her skin – pimples was a slight understatement.

'Ugh.' Tony let out, realising that. The girl looked up, questioning. Tony shook his head. 'Gruesome case' he said, smiling widely and fakely. The girl nodded. She pulled a brush and a comb out of her backpack and started to carefully undo her bun. Dark hair fell onto her back – wasn't that supposed to be blond? Tony thought for a split second – and she started to comb out every evidence of gel. Strands of yellowish hair fell onto the desk, Tony frowned. Something was wrong here, he could feel it.

Well, whatever it was, it wasn't his problem. His problem was right beneath him: the massive pile of files to sort through. Tony sighed and picked up his pen. Playtime was over.

So Tony worked, while the girl combed, and combed. Her hair was ramrod straight until her chin; from there it was curled from the bun it had been in. Now and then she stopped to scratch her nose. It irritated him, her doing that over and over and over again. He was just about to say something about it, when instead of scratching, she started to tug on her nose. Tony frowned again; this really was a weird girl. She tugged harder – it looked painful – then tried using both hands. With a sickening pop, the nose came loose.

Wait. The nose… came loose? Tony thought. Yes, it did. She now held it in her hand, and contently scratched the underlying nose that was still on her face with the other. That nose was a very different colour, more of an olive tone, and also a very different form than the other nose. And in addition to that, it was a nose he knew. The girl now scratched her brow, revealing skin in the same colour, pimple-free as it was from a grown woman.

'Ziva?' Tony exclaimed. Ziva grinned widely.

'You should have seen your face. It was unpayable.' she snorted.

'Priceless.' Tony corrected sourly. 'And yeah, what do you think? Someone just ripped their nose off in front of me.'

Ziva wanted to say something, she had in fact already opened her mouth, but burst into a fit of laughter that successfully smothered whatever sentence she was planning.

'You…' she tried to start, but was again overcome by laughter.

'It wasn't that funny.' Tony said, still offended.

'It was.' Ziva said, brushing the tears from her eyes. 'I should do this more often.'

'No, you shouldn't.' Tony said.

'Why not?' Ziva asked. 'Did you not like my appearance?'

'You seem more of McGee's type now.' Tony said. Ziva chuckled.

'What is your type then?'

Tony shuffled, looking almost uncomfortable for a moment. He quickly recaptured his cool.

'Blond, tall, pretty, cheerleader, that kinda thing.'

Ziva chuckled again. 'You do not seem to confirm to that type often.'

'Well, what is your type then, miss know-it-all?' Tony said irritated, but also curious.

Ziva frowned. 'I do not have a type.' she finally concluded.

'Everyone has a type.'

'Not me.'

'Sure.'

'Yes, I am sure.'

They parted then; Ziva off to the shower, Tony back to his desk. Neither of them knew that they were both thinking the same: _You are my type exactly. _


End file.
